Diatribe of the Dead
by The-Real-Kevy
Summary: The story of one zombie sick of the stereotyping against his entire race. This was written for my English Advanced Higher class. Hope you enjoy! Reviews welcome.


_**DIATRIBE OF THE DEAD**_

Arrrrggghhhhh. Arrrrrggghhh. Mnnnnggghhhhh. That's the way every human thinks we zombies act like. They all think that we're just a pack of stumbling, shambling messes who make incoherent noises at the first sign of something meat-like. Well, speaking as a member of the living impaired, I for one am sick of it. Since when is it my fault that I'm one of the everlasting slaves to the prince of darkness that we call the Devil? It doesn't mean I'm not a nice guy.

It's not my imagination either. I know that a lot of people tend to get paranoid when walking down the street, completely convinced that absolutely everyone is staring at them, but for me it's different. People literally look at me and run away as fast as they can, screaming maniacally as they go. It might be the fact that one of my ears hangs off my decomposing and dirt-ridden flesh but it's still rude. It really hurts my feelings. How is a ghoul supposed to make any friends if everyone he sees is fleeing in the opposite direction?

To try and fit in with the human race I decided to go and rent a film that ordinary people watch but it turns out that my local film store already caters for the zombie audience. Row after row of movies involving my kind were strewn around the shop. "Dawn of the Dead", "Day of the Dead", "Night of the Living Dead", Land of the Dead": the list was very nearly endless. I finally felt accepted by the very people who I was convinced would reject me forever. I rented every living impaired movie I could. Unfortunately, my elation was short-lived. I shuffled to the counter with the movies in hand and - like everyone else - the shop assistant curled into a ball and began bellowing for help. I spent ten minutes trying to explain to him that I was just wanting to rent some movies but he just wouldn't listen. Eventually, I had to figure out how to use the till myself. When you consider that my hands are quite arthritic from digging out of my own grave, this was a fairly demanding challenge. After a while, I managed to pay the hysterical shopkeeper and make my way home.

Getting home from places has always been quite a challenge for me since zombification. Due to the stiffness of the necrotic muscle tissue, I tend to have more of an unsteady stride than an actual walk. This leaves the average zombie taking just one step per 1.5 seconds. It takes quite a while to walk anywhere but buses just end up crashing in a blind panic if I board them, so I don't really bother any more.

As I made my awkward limp home, the usual cacophony of screams washed over me in a wave of ignorance. I didn't care though: I was going to watch some quality undead cinema. I imagined what they would be like. I envisaged stories of two ghouls meeting on a sun kissed beach and falling deeply in love. They would walk off happily into the sunset and a single tear would drip from my slightly loose eye. I pictured a wild buddy movie about a crazy zombie and his miserable human friend going on a whacky road-trip through America. They would help local folk with a group of bandits and save the day. They would go on a journey of discovery and realise that they aren't that different after all. I wanted movies that would show genuine insight into the necrotic mindset.

It only took nine hours to get home on that day. I was making good time. Home was a mausoleum inside an old and decrepit graveyard at the end of town. Not many people ever entered the graveyard. I had heard rumours that some horrible monster lived in the graveyard but I hadn't met it yet, so I carried on staying there. The fear of everyone else made it a beautifully quiet place. I was away from the insane noise of hysteria. I was away from the rejection of the human race. I made my way through the misty darkness of the burial ground and stepped into my humble abode. The mausoleum wasn't huge but it was my own little piece of the world and I liked that. I could be myself there. Cobwebs littered the ceiling corners and moss was growing everywhere. A single candle sat in the middle of the old place, illuminating it with an orange glow. I like to think it made it homely. I popped the first DVD excitedly into the television/DVD combo I had sitting on a crypt in the corner. I sat down with a smile like a Cheshire cat and watched the films. My jaw dropped with shock and outrage as I regarded my purchases. My noble race was being portrayed as the enemy! How could they lie like this? And no zombie can string together a syllable, let alone a sentence in this film! This wasn't fun! This wasn't entertainment! This was propaganda!

I threw the DVD case at the television in a fit of anger. I pulled my ear off with deaf rage. This was an outrage! I couldn't take much more of this victimisation. My head was beginning to feel light with the discontent that pulsed through my lifeless veins. I stood up and paced as quickly as I could up and down the mausoleum screaming incoherently. The strong aggravation that I felt was beginning to shut down my brain. I was turning into an anger machine.

I stumbled out of the graveyard violently. The sun had come up a long time ago and many humans were packed on the street. I viciously smacked into an old-aged pedestrian and knocked her to the ground with a thud. Another, more portly, elderly lady ran over to help the now seemingly unconscious woman. She scrutinised my appearance over her spectacles for a while as the thought registered into her brain:

"Oh my god, it's a zombie! Help! Somebody help!"

She let out a blood curdling scream as if I was about to kill her. Strangely enough, her scream was an accurate estimation of what happened next. I grabbed the old lady and bit into her neck quickly, like a predator who had found its prey and relished the kill. Blood drenched the entire bottom half of my rotting face. Adrenaline would have pumped through my veins if congealed blood wasn't obstructing it.

"Arrrrrrggggghhhhhh. Arrrrrrgggggghhhhh. Mnnnnnnnnngggggggghhhhhhh." I roared rampantly.

I had been pushed over the edge. I had become a stumbling, shambling mess who makes incoherent noises at the first sign of something meat-like. I was the cliché. And it was all the humans fault.


End file.
